


Hope

by Lidsworth



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Chronic Illness, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Russingon, but Fingon tries his best, the elves are really bad at dealing with trauma and treating survivors with respect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 11:40:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13166175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lidsworth/pseuds/Lidsworth
Summary: Fingon attempts to cope with the after effects of Maedhros’ torture, and finds himself failing, until a human offers him a bit of advice.





	Hope

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the Tolkien Secret Santa. :D Check it out on my tumblr (inkstranger.tumblr.com). I'm my own beta so be kind to me. Leave me a Kudos and a comment of you liked it :D

Fingon sits a little aways from  Maedhros’ beside, hands balled into tight  fist in his lap, and  knuckles paler than the moon that looms above outside. He sits, unblinking and unmoving in the small, uncomfortable chair provided to him by the humans, breathing deeply as a commotion of healers busy themselves with their newest patient.

Maedhros threw up again, vomiting what little contents he had in his stomach, and expelling bile when his food had run out. It was unnerving, for an elf of all things to vomit as much as Maedhros did.

  
It was…unnatural.

  
No Noldor methods of healing seemed to work on him, and when he fell into a fevered state, their ancient techniques only made things worse (and in actuality, Nolodr did not heal. Up until now, there was no reason to heal). Finrod had been beside himself with stress, as  his attempt at singing Maedhros’ ailment away was more of an exorcism than anything.  It  was  Maglor’s singing that eventually calmed the eldest Feanorian, his music that stifled his snarls and quelled his screaming, but only because Maglor was corrupted in his own right. He’d only delayed the problem, not fixed it.

  
They all knew why, of course. Knew why Finrod’s music hurt Maedhros and Maglor’s didn’t. It painfully reminded them all of why Matimo was in the present situation in the first place.

Matimo was broken, seemingly beyond repair, because nothing was working on him, and because perfectly normal elves didn’t get sick anyway. And if they did  get sick…then they weren’t elves.

The humans were the last resort, and honestly, the least preferable.

They knew too little of the physiology of the elves, and were all together untrusting of the Eldar. But they had knowledge of the orcs, for their kind had too fallen victim to the sickness that Morgoth’s torment inflicted upon the thralls.

And unlike the elves, the humans did not shun prisoners of Morgoth. They were resilient like that, hopeful. Did what they could to fix the extent of the Dark Lord’s curses, and if the rumors were true, had actually fashioned their own ways of undoing the lasting effects of Morgoth’s corruption (but they were just rumors, and that’s what terrified Fingon. Because if they couldn’t fix Maedhros, then what?).   
  
Oh, and humans got ill. Periodically ill. Just like Matimo had ever since they’d rescued him from Angband. They learned how to deal with it, somehow. Fingon only hoped the same methods would work with Maedhros.

—–

“Maser elf,” unbeknownst to him,  a small child pokes at his leg, her chubby fingers resting on his knee for slightly too long, “A change of tunic? “

Fingon blinks, silver eyes gazing down at the small, dark skinned youth, who looks at him like he’s a creature from a myth (and to be fair, to her, he is). He supposes that’s why she’s embedded her finger into his leg, just to make sure he’s real.

He hadn’t even noticed her until she’d spoken, to caught up in his own despair to be his usual perceptive self.

He gives the child a weary smile, “Thank you, little one. I hadn’t even realized that my tunic was soiled .”

It had been dirtied my Maedhros, of course (another reminder of their failed attempt to get the older elf to hold his food down).  At the time, Fingon hadn’t realized it,  not until the small child pointed it out.

By the looks of the tunic underneath her other arm, it’s not large enough to fit his elvish stature. But nonetheless, he takes it with a smile, using the opportunity to peer over her head and look at Maedhros.

  
He lay still in the bed, paler than the sheets, and guanter than the moon with her craters.

  
His breathing is the only indication that he is actually alive.

  
Fingon hands his old tunic to the little girl before, patting her head as she weaves her way out of the crowded room.

——

  
It’s another half hour before the humans clear out, the last of the group giving Fingon a rundown of the Matimo’s condition, and what to expect.

The woman, the head healer he supposes, bears an uncanny resemblance to the little girl, and he wonders if she may be her sister. He considers complementing the little girl’s mannerism to her, but the conversation has already weighed him down.

  
She doesn’t tell him anything he wants to hear.

“Will he….” Fingon gulps, “get better?”

  
“He will be like this for quite a while” speaks the woman, “This isn’t an illness that will go away, not even with time. It will plague him for the rest of his li….eternity. I have seen it before.” She finishes, awkwardly, the word “life” not entirely appropriate for an elf.    
  
Fingon nods without fully comprehending what she’s said, only concentrating on the fact that Maedhros will not be getting better.

He’s scared, unsure of how to deal with…this. The humans were the last resort, their only solution before…

“We can–”

“Will he live?” Fingon interrupts her, blank eyes still staring straight ahead.   
  


“Yes,” there is an edge in her voice, agitation evident at Fingon’s slight. He doesn’t blame her. She didn’t just spent hours slaving over an elf to be dismissed so rudely. But he’s not thinking correctly, not logically.  

“What can I do to help him? I can’t fix hi–”

“He cannot be fixed, Master Elf, as he is not broken,” it’s then that she takes the opportunity to drag one of the spare chairs sitting in the room beside Fingon, and plops herself beside him, “He’s remade.”

He let’s her words settle in his head, and while he  hears them, but he does not process them, does not  understand them. Not yet, at least.

And by the way he stares straight ahead, like a lost, hopeless child, she can tell.

  
“My husband was taken by Morgoth, tortured just like your friend was. Only he didn’t last very long…but with the time we had left with him, we had to come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t the same. Broken was an insult to what he had gone through, and to the person he was….because things are broken, Maser Elf–things, not people. We all change, we are remade, but we do not break.” She barrels through her explanation to him, at some point having taken his hand and gently squeezing it, reassuring him, “He left me with that before he died. Didn’t say it of course, but it was a lesson well learned. A lesson I try to share with all of my patients and their families when I can.”

Now he considers her words. Really considers them, because they make sense. They make a lot of sense. And Fingon…Fingon could see himself being like her, learning to accept Maedhros with time, with guidance. But the others, the others are who worry him. They are used to Maedhros being their centerpiece (except Maglor, of course. He’s always been his own elf), to being the strong one. He’s always been like that, always. If he changes, there’s no chance that they will accept him.

“We elves aren’t like you, we don’t…this has never happened before, not until we arrived in Middle Earth,” Fingon buries his head in his hand, hopeless, “If we’re not perfect, then we’re broken.”

She nods in understanding, squeezing his hand tightly once again.

“Much has changed for you and your kind, Master Elf. It is time you understood that.” She gives his hand a gentle squeeze, making to stand after they spend some time in silence.

  
“Wait–” He grabs her wrists before she can leave, “What…I want to learn how to help. I want to learn how to accept his…his change, that way, everyone else can.  Please, teach me what to do.”  

  
She smiles, spirits lifting slightly at Fingon’s eagerness to help.

  
“ Some of it you can’t learn from me, Master Elf. I can give you direction, but the rest is up to experience,” she explains, to which Fingon returns with a nod, “Then we’ll start with the basics, as we must heal his physical body as well as his spirit.  Specific herbs should do the trick, they’ll ease his stomach and bring down his fever. I’ll give you a list,” she begins, “His body was damaged in Angband. I treat him like I treat a human, the methods that work for my people seem to work for him.”   

He listens, attentively,  jotting everything he learns down in his head, making a mental note of each little detail she mentions.

In the end, they talk for hours.

—-

“I’m not broken, you know,” Fingon looks up towards the bed, jerking his conscience awake. He hadn’t even realized that he’d nodded off. He can’t say he’s bothered by it, for it is the first time in weeks that he has properly slept (even if his body aches from his position).

  
“Good Morning, Matimo,” groggily, he greets, “I didn’t know you were awake–”

“I heard you talking with the human, I’m not broken,” he repeats, sternly,  before Fingon can continue.

The younger elf groans.

“How much did you hear,” He is attentive now, straightening up and looking intently at Maedhros.

  
“Enough.” He spits, bitterly, eyes darkening as he averts his gaze from Fingon.

“Obviously not,” Fingon states plainly, then continues. “Remade is what she called it, which you would have heard had you listened to our entire conversation. But I think that was out of your control. Regardless, it’s  not a thing amongst the elves.”

At his bluntness, Maedhros flinches.

“That’s not a bad thing, Matimo.” Fingon elaborates, “Not if you don’t want it to be. Not if you-if we can accept it.”

The redhead still seems unphased, and with a sigh, Fingon crosses the distance between he and Maedhros, and settles himself beside the older elf.

  
“Look at me, Maedhros,” he instructs, his tone collected, but a hint of seriousness just below the surface, “please.”   
  
With great effort, the elf turns his head to Fingon, slowly. He never fully meets his eyes, but he doesn’t look away either.

“You’re not broken, but you’re not the same either. You’re..Remade…changed. And you’re not going to ever be the same.” Fingon leans against the headboard beside Maedhros, grabbing his scarred stump and placing it on his lap.

Nervously, Maedhros asks, “Does that…upset you?”

“No,” Fingon sighs, “no, not anymore. And I  was selfish when it did, but it doesn’t anymore.”

“Thank you,” he breathes in relief, now catching Fingon’s gaze with his own, watery one, “I hear my brothers talking–the ones that care, the ones who haven’t given up on me. Yet at least. They think i’ve changed, too. Know I’ve changed. They want the old Matimo back, but he doesn’t exist anymore.”

“They want the strong, healthy Matimo back. The one who’s not vomiting every day, or feverish, or speaking in tongues, but–”

  
“He’s not coming back,” Fingon interrupts , “Not now, not ever.”

“No…not ever.”

  
Fingon bites his lip and nods, understanding.

“We’ll make them understand. It will take time, as we elves our set in our ways, but they’ll understand,” he pauses, then says,  “I promise.”

“…It doesn’t even have to be them, or anyone else. As long as you understand, it’s fine.” Mumbles the Feanorian, as he settles his head on Fingon’s shoulder.

Fingon closes his eyes, letting himself drift into sleep in a much more comfortable position (as comfortable as one could be with another being leaning on their shoulder).  He disagrees with Maedhros’ statement, of course. They’re his brothers, they should accept him regardless. But that’s an argument for when Fingon wakes. 


End file.
